She calls me really early in the morning, or really late at night. To talk about reality TV shows.
Whenever I’m on the phone with her, she hangs up abruptly to get another call…without saying goodbye.
She pees with the door open in the powder room on the main floor of our house.
She backed into my car when it was parked on her driveway…

But no matter how much I want to shake her and scream, “MOM IT’S 8AM ON A SUNDAY AND I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU THINK OF RAMONA!” the woman has given me so much and I can’t forget that.

My mom is one of the most generous people I know, always giving her time and services to other people. She will do anything for me, including moving me and all my stuff from dorm to sorority house to house to apartment to apartment. She’s always in the mood for a trip to the mall and sometimes even throws her credit card down at the register. She’s an awesome cook, she’s pretty good at Scrabble and she did apologize when she backed into my car…

But the thing I’m most grateful for when it comes to my mom is the confidence and self esteem she has instilled in me.

I was a fat kid growing up. And not just baby fat. Fat fat. I was tall and big and had a perm – needless to say, I stuck out. But I never knew it. In fact, I didn’t realize quite how big I was until I looked at pictures from my childhood long after those years were over. At the time, thanks to my mom, I thought I was just like everyone else. You see, she was a plus sized woman, but I never realized there was anything wrong with that. I don’t remember my mom ever talking about her weight. I don’t remember her ever hiding herself or her body out of shame.

What I do remember is her putting on a bathing suit every day in the summer and enjoying our backyard pool with the many guests she’d invite over. Women who were half her size refused to take off their cover-ups because they had “fat thighs.” But not my mom. She wouldn’t even wear a cover-up. She didn’t care what people thought of her – she was going to enjoy that hot, summer day.

So that is how I grew up.

I never knew there was anything “wrong” with my body, so I never tried to hide or change it. My mother taught me that my body was my body and it was never something to be ashamed of. She never forced me to eat fruit instead of a brownie, or put me on a diet before I was ready. She didn’t want me to grow up thinking she didn’t like me the way that I was. She always just told me I was beautiful.

My mom let me make all my life decisions – from what I was going to eat that day to how I was going to feel about my body – on my own. And then, no matter what they were, she supported me. When I wanted to go on a diet, my mom went with me. When I started working out, she went with me. And when I had a bad day at school and wanted a giant ice cream sundae from the restaurant down the street, she went with me. And ate more than half.

She never focused on weight or size or numbers. She just focused on being happy, however that happened to look for me. So I grew up loving myself – even when there was a lot more to love.

I sometimes make jokes around my mom about how good looking and perfect I am now.

“How do you fit your head through the door?” she’ll ask me, shaking her head.  She can hate all she wants, but she created this self confident monster. And I love me her for it.

My mom is the bomb and deserves the world on this lovely Mother’s Day. My dream is to take her to a spa for a week to relax (it’s 10% off!), get pampered and reward her for everything she does. My reality is a Hallmark card and a giant hug. And this article. I love you, mom!

How has your mom shaped the woman you are today? Honor her in the comments section below!

Many people weighed in (tee hee) on the topic via the comments, and most of them seemed angry that we even brought up the issue. I mean, weight shouldn’t matter! But I really felt that a lot of people were missing the point.

This is not a question of body image or beauty, but rather a question of comfort, societal expectations and the role of men and women in a relationship. I was curious to see if weight was something guys considered when dating someone (beyond the whole preference for a girl with big boobs and a negative waist).

And based on what this guy said, I think weight and size matter more than most people are willing to admit.

I frowned and scrolled back up to the picture. Hm. Come to think of it, her legs don’t look like they could be snapped in two by a twelve-year-old. But plus-sized? She didn’t really look plus-sized. I was perplexed. The consistent theory was that this “oversized” model was picked from the beginning as part of Tyra’s personal agenda to make reality TV history. Or something. Making a point that you don’t have to be skinny to be pretty.

It’s a great message, it is. Except this Whitney character really isn’t not skinny. But in the context of an industry full of waifs, she instantly becomes the fat girl. It’s like picking the hottest guy in a classroom only to find that he’s less attractive on the street among other civilians; you can’t base your judgment of a person in the confines of one element.

Further Googling of Whitney Thompson ensued, and my chest started to tighten as I searched for what size she was. I felt compelled to know, and I felt even worse that I cared. Why should I? This girl’s size doesn’t affect me. And I don’t want to care, but I grew up knowing to care because of the connotations of size. I care because she’s probably around my height, 5-11 (and a half, close but not quite six feet), and so whatever label she gets is probably going to apply to me.

Most of my friends probably have an average height of 5’4″ and I grew up having conversations with people who couldn’t imagine anyone actually being anything bigger than a size six. At my smallest, on a very very good day and with a very forgiving label, I’m an 8, but pretty much always an even 10 and a 12 for my work pants (tall girls, I highly endorse BCBG for suiting). Bringing that size up in conversation always gets a great response, the widening of eyes, then the consequent rolling of them and the “Yeah but you’re tall.” Like it never occurred to them before that a size ten girl isn’t overweight. But even if I’m not fat, I’ve been made to feel that way since I can remember.

Yes, I’m tall, and maybe you can’t see it now, but I’ve been dieting since age 10, and it took me till the end of high school to get out of the chubscout stage. And still, I wasn’t self-classified as skinny. You never are if you’ve ever struggled with your weight. I was felt and looked better, that was it.

You can see why I refuse to discuss my actual weight altogether. Good for crazy-ass Tyra wearing her weight screenprinted on a bathing suit for the cameras, but for me? Thanks, I’m all set. I’ll leave it to the imagination of the masses before hearing gasps over that sizable number, or have someone try to kindly justify it with my being a “bigger girl.” It’s all about connotations, alright? “Big” is not an acceptable adjective. It’s like telling a girl who’s naturally very thin she looks anorexic. You’re striking a nerve. People don’t have control over their genes, you are what you are and you make lemonade with those lemons of DNA. There’s no need to always say what you’re thinking; if you’re different at all, you know what’s on an observer’s mind before they state the painfully obvious anyway.

Finally, I find a website that advertises Whitney Thompson as a size 10. Which means that I could borrow her jeans, I am also plus-sized, and the mass population considers me fat. Which must mean that even I could be a plus-sized model… even though I’m not plus-sized.

If I were thinner, I’d be happier, right? Because then I’d be just like everyone else… and only comparing other superficial things with them instead of it being my weight or my size. So the media teaches us, every day. I wish the weight had never even been an issue. The girl takes great pictures. Let her model in peace.

At this point, lectures from former women’s studies professors are popping in my head, saying that the labels are socially constructed and if we didn’t buy into them, they’d lose any sense of validity they have. Writing a paper and understanding these concepts and putting the idea into practice are just not the same, unfortunately. Alas, I am but one woman and these things take time.